Just for the record people, I don't own anything in this story except for the plotline.
Oh, and this is my first story, so any and all criticism would be appreciated.
Oh, and a big thank you to my most stringent reviewers Wandira, Rotten Bunnies and Remussweetie, thanks for the encouragement and criticism )
Angel Of Death Chapter 3:
Old Acquaintances, New Friends
Alex cycled as far and as fast as he could. A taxi could have taken him to Liverpool Street quicker, but it felt good to be doing something, anything, rather than sitting in the back of a stuffy cab. The pedals stung his legs occasionally, and his reckless steering drew angry glares, but for the most part he passed unnoticed. He reached Liverpool Street quickly, and glanced up at the Royal And General Bank. Its front was flawless, just another bank on an already crowded street, but Alex knew that it was the secret headquarters for MI6, and he also knew that they were the only ones who could help him catch this Jack O'Donnell. The only problem was that MI6 had never let him inside without sending for him. So he was planning how to break into one of the most secure buildings in the entire country. He quickly rifled through his school backpack to check that he had everything he needed. A metal rod, a piece of newspaper, a pencil, a small MP3 player and headphones, a length of rope and a large hook taken from a reinforced coat hanger. He zipped up the bag again. Ready.
Alex got off his bike and stepped into an alleyway that ran alongside the Royal And General, slapping a thick bike chain onto it before he left its side. In the alley, deserted except for the inevitable rubbish and solitary rat, Alex crouched and glanced upwards. As he had hoped, a fire escape clung to the wall like a scared mountain climber, with an unexpected lone guard leaning against the railings. He was too far up to see Alex, and seemed bored, a lit cigarette dangling between his fingertips. Alex's brow creased as he contemplated various strategies for dealing with the man. He considered throwing something to try to knock him out, but even if Alex could hurl a piece of the fetid rubbish that far, he seriously doubted that it would knock the agent out. A straight-out confrontation was no good either, as the man was at least twice Alex's own weight and probably had a radio to call for back up. He decided to stick to the original plan. Alex scurried across the alleyway, directly underneath the fire escape's lowest stair, some ten feet above his head. Obviously MI6 wanted to ward off casual thieves. Alex tied the hook to the rope, and threw it upwards. He missed; falling short, and only managed to dodge out of the way by sheer luck. The second time he overshot, the hook landing with a clang on the rung and screeching horribly as Alex tugged it back. It simply couldn't get enough of a grip. The agent above straightened up, but settled back almost immediately. Alex breathed out in relief and threw the hook again. Bingo. It caught on the rung, and Alex brought his full weight to bear on the rope. The fire escape lowered itself down with barely a creak, obviously well oiled. Alex began to climb.
Above his head, the agent was annoyed. Not only had he been demoted for failing to recognise and stop Alex when he had been sent to kill Mrs. Jones, but now his cigarette had gone out. Absolutely bloody perfect. He patted his pockets, and glanced down. Alex looked up. The two stared at each other, separated only by a thin mesh grid. There was a moment of tense surprise, and then the agent reached inside his pocket. Alex didn't know whether he was reaching for a gun or a radio, but it didn't matter. The man had to be stopped. Alex sprinted up the last set of stairs as the man raised his radio to his ear, his hand on the 'Talk' button. Alex lashed out as the man clicked the button. His elbow caught the man on the side of the head, knocking him unconscious. He caught him before he fell, and deftly removed the radio from the man's hand. He plugged in his MP3 player's headphones, and crouched next to the door. He glanced through the keyhole, and saw that it was blocked. He grinned. If MI6 hadn't left the key in the lock, he would have had to try to break his way through, and at the very least would have set off a few dozen alarms. He opened his backpack, and removed the pencil and sheet of newspaper. He carefully slid the newspaper under the door, and then poked the key out of the lock with the sharpened pencil. It fell onto the paper with a soft thud. Alex exhaled and pressed his ear to the door. If he messed up now, he'd never get the key. Slowly, he cupped the newspaper slightly, and drew it out under the door. He just managed to get it through. He grinned, resisted the impulse to laugh, and put the key in the lock. Next, he picked up the unconscious agent's radio, and slotted the MP3 player's headphones into it. He spun the dial experimentally. Great. Now Alex could hear everything they said on the intercom, at least to the guards. He turned the key and walked inside.
Alex Rider pressed his back against the corner and slowly leant around, trying to make as little noise as possible. The radio had stayed silent, so Alex assumed his entry had gone unnoticed. There, over by the low sofa in the corner. A large man stood, with a lump in his jacket. A shoulder holster, Alex assumed. There was no way past. The guard had a perfect viewpoint of the corridor, and it was only a matter of luck that Alex hadn't been spotted. He slowly withdrew around the corner, and pressed the 'Talk' button on the radio.
"Hello there! My name is Alex Rider, you might remember me, I tried to kill Mrs. Jones. Well, I'm back, and I'm inside! Catch me if you can!" He depressed the button and listened. There was a moment of silence, and then the channel erupted into a cacophony of alarm. A man with a loud, booming voice commanded the guards to split up and spread out, and made a special note to send at least a dozen armed men to the fire escape, on the basis that it was that guard's radio he was using. Alex held his breath. The armed guard at the far end of the corridor strode through a small door, drawing his gun as he did so. Alex felt sick. The gun even looked ugly, a snub-nosed pistol that seemed to sniff the air like a pit bull terrier. As the door closed, Alex ran. His feet thumped down into the thick carpet. He was nearly at the lift, when the door opened, and the man emerged, holding his gun straight at him, blocking his path. Alex slowed down and stopped.
"Your name is Alex? Alex Rider?"
"Yes," Alex felt sick. He had wanted to put a spanner in the works, so to speak, to prove to MI6 that he could beat their challenge and get inside without being picked up or begging like a starving dog.
"Come with me. Mr. Blunt is expecting you." The man pointed to the lift, and Alex walked in, the man close behind, following his gun. The doors closed, and the man holstered his weapon. He drew a small key card and swiped it through a slot. The lift hummed, then dragged itself upwards like an ancient leviathan rising from the depths, dragging Alex to meet two of his least favourite people in the world.
"Ah, Alex," said the grey-eyed man sitting behind the desk, "We've been expecting you." Alex eyed Alan Blunt carefully, hoping, as always, to find some flicker of emotion behind his ironclad icy calm.
"We're so, so sorry, Alex," the room's only other occupant said. Her name was Mrs. Jones, and she rather liked Alex, despite the fact he had tried to kill her only a few months ago.
"If you're sorry, then why couldn't you stop them?"
"Because we didn't know until it was too late," Mr. Blunt stated, "Although I must say you seem to have done a sterling job at defending yourself. Our men found two unconscious men, one from a series of bullet wounds and the other from a blow to the head. Very good." Alex knew from past experience that 'very good' was Mr. Blunt's highest term of praise.
"Why don't you tell us the story Alex?" Mrs. Jones asked, "From your perspective, how you saw it." And Alex did. He recounted coming home, and finding Jack held at gunpoint. He retold how he shot the fleeing man, and how he defended himself from the sword-wielding man. He recalled the explosion as his home rippled into flames. He read out the note, and placed both it and the black envelope onto the desk in front of him. Mr. Blunt quickly sketched out the tattoo design and copied out the message, making little notes alongside in green ink.
"So," he pronounced, "The Angel Of Death rises again."
"Who are these people?" Alex asked tersely, "What do they want? What have they got against me?" Mrs. Jones spoke up.
"The Angel Of Death is a terrorist group, Alex, a very powerful, influential one, as strong as Al'Queda ever were. They are made up of dedicated patriots. Anti-British patriots. Every member is from a country that England has either made war upon or rules."
"Rules? We're not an empire!" Alex interjected.
"Of course we're not," she retorted, "But everybody knows that England governs various other countries. Northern Ireland, Wales, Scotland, Australia, New Zealand, the Falklands, and so on. In each country, there is a small core of people who resent this. The IRA, for instance. Angel Of Death is the banner for these people. Nearly every Anglophobe wishes to be accepted into their ranks. They are a hardcore crack regiment, as large as the SAS and incredibly well trained. Their leader is a man called James O'Donnell, but the world's security forces know him as 'Jimmy The Ripper.' It's his nickname, as it were. He's one of the most dangerous men in the world, especially after last week."
"What happened last week?" Alex asked.
"He stole a Triton nuclear missile," Mr. Blunt took up the narrative. "And we don't know what he's planning to do with it. All security in Britain has been tripled since the theft. We've already had a-" Mr. Blunt's words were cut off by a sound like an earthquake. All of a sudden, huge flames billowed outside the window, and smoke poured through the building as a massive explosion tore part of the building down. Alex raced through the door, desperate to help anybody injured. He worked his way down the building, but everyone seemed to be OK. Until he reached Smither's office. His friend, immensely fat as always, was bleeding badly. He gestured to Alex as he fell down, brushing an expensive computer system from his desk.
"Alex? Is that you?"
"Yes, Mr. Smithers. Are you hurt? Can I do anything?" Smithers laughed uneasily.
"No, Alex old boy, there's absolutely nothing you can do. I'm going to be fine, as soon as a doctor gets here, which shouldn't be too long." He sat up. "Tell me, do you plan to go after Angel Of Death yourself?"
"Yes." Revenge burned in Alex's eyes as he said it.
"In that case, you had better take some items with you," Smithers panted. He pressed a small button underneath his des, and a potted plant across the room hissed. The pot crumbled, the plant dissolved, and a brief smell of acid filled the air. In the ruins of the pot, Smithers held up a metal attaché briefcase. He turned it so that the opening part faced away from him, then flicked the catches. A long knife hissed out of the case, clicked, and withdrew itself back inside. Only then did Smithers turn it around and open it fully.
"Anti-theft device," he muttered at Alex's shocked expression. "Alright, here's what you need. Some of my better inventions, I think." He began pulling objects out of the case, starting with a thick manual. "This is the instruction manual. If it falls into enemy hands, all you have to do is pull a page out."
"What happens then?" Alex asked.
"It dissolves, of course! Wouldn't want those Anglophobic terrorists getting their hands on some of these beauties!" Smithers pulled out an Ipod, or something very similar. Alex had a sinking feeling. He'd heard about this one. "I call this the I-x-plod," Smithers boasted. "Fingerprint sensitive, and set to your left hand. All you have to do is turn the wheel three times anti-clockwise to arm it, and then set the timer. It doesn't work unless the headphones aren't plugged in, so be careful!" He withdrew a small Palmtop computer. "This is a little something I call the Napalm Organiser. Type in your name, and the infrared port turns into a flamethrower. As a little added bonus, pressing the 'ON/OFF' button five times in as many seconds will turn it into a perimeter mine." He drew out the second-to-last thing in the box. "This, my old friend, is what I call the Spy-ro pen. It doesn't use normal ink, as you might have guessed. Instead, it uses a very low pH acid that will eat through nearly anything. Oh, and it can also be used as a miniature stun gun. Simply remove the ink cartridge, hold it by the lid, and give your enemies a good jab. It'll knock them out for about three minutes, and it has a limited charge, so use it carefully!" He withdrew the last item. "This is a very special something that I haven't named yet. Be very careful with it, I'd like it back in one piece!"
"What is it, Mr. Smithers?" Alex asked.
"Well, I was watching an old James Bond film recently, Licence To Kill, and I saw how useful a lighter could be." He held up a small cigarette lighter. "Simply pull on each end and it will reveal a rather nice camera. It's got night vision and infrared capabilities, but that's not all!" He flicked it, and it lit. "This flame by itself is harmless, but it releases a gas into the air that will knock out any surveillance system nearby, and also makes the area invisible to radar."
"What about the flame itself? Isn't that kind of visible?"
"Glad you asked that, Alex! This little switch here makes the flame disappear!" he pressed it, and the flame vanished. "Well, it's still there, of course, but simply a clear colour. Totally invisible."
"Thanks Mr. Smithers," Alex said, sweeping the gadgets back into the suitcase, "I don't know what I'd do without you."
The first thing next morning, Alex was on the train to Liverpool.
A/N: I apologise for the lack of major life-threatening action in this chapter, but it's vital for the story that Alex gets these gadgets. I also wanted to explain Angel Of Death a little, just so that Alex knows what he's up against )
